On my way to the video store sheets of icecover puddles like wrinkles patterningthe corner of an eye. I’m on my way to return Paul Newman. He’s kissingparking meters like they were girlshe’d been circling all night, then deftly beheading them.

Still it’s not hard to see the two of us instead:only days ago. My shoulder encounteringyours on the sofa during Cool Hand Luke. Or early the next afternoon before I left, as you pressed me up against the door and said it’d be a shame for me to lose my breasts. I stepped back outside into the first inch of snow that had gathered since we came in.

Already the snow was melting.A clump fell from the branchesof the tall bush by the front door.They shook up then downa trampoline evening itself outafter its jumper has jumped off.

It was a short walk home. It would have taken moreblocks to figure out that I’d escaped without losing my head. My glasses fogged when I got in from outside.

From "Which One is the Bridge" (Topside, 2015). Reprinted with permission of the author.